Page 6 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

More Than This

Anthony

The sound of my own gasp pulls me out of the nightmare, my chest heaving as I bolt upright in bed.

For a split second, I don’t know where I am.

The familiar sight of my dorm room slowly comes into focus: the cracked ceiling tile above my bed, the small desk in the corner, the pile of dirty laundry I keep meaning to deal with.

I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake the lingering feeling of dread. The nightmare wasn’t anything new. Flashes of dark hallways, the oppressive scent of incense, whispered threats crawling under my skin.

“Just a dream,” I mutter to myself, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The room feels too small, too quiet, and I need to move.

My morning routine is simple, almost mechanical. I need it to be, or I’ll find myself overthinking every little thing.

I head to my makeshift kitchen, start the coffee maker, and grab the blender. I toss in a banana, a scoop of protein powder, some almond milk, and a handful of frozen berries. The whir of the motor fills the room, drowning out the remnants of the nightmare still swirling in my head.

While the shake blends, I start some toast and crack a couple of eggs into a pan on my hot plate, letting the smell of them cooking fill the air. I can’t wait to have a real kitchen. I love to cook, but this dorm setup is for shit.

The whole grain toast pops out of the toaster, and I spread a thin layer of peanut butter over it. I pour my shake into a tumbler and scarf down the eggs and toast.

The routine steadies me. It’s something I can control.

Practice comes next. By the time I make it to the field, the sun is already blazing. Sweat starts beading on my forehead before I’ve even stretched.

The team’s energy is high this morning, a mix of anticipation and competitiveness as we run through drills. Football is one of the few places where I can shut my brain off, let the physicality of it drown out everything else.

Butters, as always, is in rare form.

“PacMan, you gotta pick up the pace!” he shouts, jogging backward to make sure I hear him.

“You gonna talk all day, or are you gonna play?” I shoot back.

The guys laugh, and Butters grins, unfazed.

Practice flies by in a blur of sweat, shouting, and the smack of cleats on turf. By the time we leave the field to hit the showers, my muscles ache in the best way possible.

The locker room is its usual mix of chaos and banter. Butters is holding court in the corner, gesturing animatedly as he tells some story about his weekend.

“…so, then she says, ‘You better not let your roommate find your dildo,’ and I’m like, ‘Honey, he’s got the same one.’”

The guys burst out laughing, and even I can’t help but chuckle as I peel off my gear.

Butters notices and points at me. “See? Even PacMan thinks it’s funny. That means it’s a really funny story.”

“Or it means you talk too much,” I reply, tossing my cleats into my locker.

“Guilty as charged. But prostates… amiright?” he says with a wink, earning another round of laughter.

While I shower and get dressed, I think about the camaraderie with my team. It’s one of the few things in my life that feels genuinely good.

I’m not particularly close with any of them.

Butters being the closest, and even that has its limits.

Limits that are of my own doing. But they’re a good group of guys—and these moments with them remind me that I’m not entirely alone.

I’m going to miss it when my final season ends.

It also reminds me that I could have stronger relationships if I let people in.

The walk back to my dorm from practice feels longer than usual. My legs ache, my mind is whirring, and the weight of the bag slung over one shoulder feels heavier with each step.

I push through the dorm building’s glass doors and, ignoring the burn in my legs, take the stairs two at a time to my floor. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I unlock my door.

Kicking the door shut behind me, I toss my bag onto the floor, and collapse onto the bed without even bothering to turn on the light. The phone buzzes again, vibrating against my hip, insistent and annoying.

I pull it out, swiping the screen open, and immediately regret it.

Mom: Why won’t you respond to me? I just want to talk, Anthony. Call me. Please.

My thumb hovers over the screen. It’s not anger I feel—not entirely. It’s something colder, sharper, like a jagged edge that never smooths out.

What could I possibly say to her?

How do you talk to the person who let it all happen, who looked the other way when you needed her most? The person who made excuse after excuse for the men who made your life a living hell?

I don’t have words for her. Not now. Not ever.

With a flick of my thumb, I delete the message.

My phone buzzes again and I let out a sigh. But when I see it’s Jen texting, my mood lightens.

Jen: How was practice, champ? Still carrying the team on your big, broad, jock shoulders?

I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for her timing.

Me: It’s a team effort, Jen. You wouldn’t understand.

Jen: That’s not true. I like groups.

Me: Sigh. Do you ever say anything that’s not dirty or sarcastic?

Jen: Would you even like me if I did?

She’s not wrong.

Me: Fair point.

Jen: Anyway, you ready for tomorrow? Gonna train the new guy without scaring him off?

Me: I’ll try. No promises.

Jen: Be nice to him! First impressions matter.

Me: Yeah, yeah. What do you know about him?

Jen: Not much. Kathy says he’s “charming but broody,” I think that’s older people code for hot bad boy.

I rub my eyes and shake my head.

Me: Frank and Kathy aren’t old.

Jen: I said OLDER Anthony, not old. Gotta go. I have class.

Me: No, you don’t.

Jen: Very funny, Pacini.

I toss my phone onto the bed, letting out a long breath. Jen’s good at this, at poking fun, breaking down the walls I’ve built that make it hard for people to get close to me. Jen is a bulldozer though—once she decided we were going to be friends… that was that.

Still, the thought of training someone tomorrow puts a knot in my stomach. It’s not the work, really. I could alphabetize records in my sleep. However, the idea of spending hours making small talk with a stranger gives me anxiety.

Frank and Kathy seem to think this Chance guy will fit in. I guess we’ll see.

I stretch out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and close my eyes, willing myself to relax while my mother’s text lingers in the back of my mind.

When my phone buzzes with another notification, I groan.

Aren’t I the popular one today?

It’s a text from Butters.

Butters: Party at the GLV tonight you in?

I pause, staring at the message. Parties aren’t really my scene—especially these kinds.

The GLV, short for Greek Leadership Village, is our school’s version of fraternity row.

Officially, it’s designed to ‘ support leadership and promote academic development’, at least according to the glossy brochures parents are handed.

But when you cram twenty-some fraternity and sorority houses into a cluster of condos, the only thing that develops is a party.

Me: You already know the answer to that. Why do you keep asking?

He shoots back immediately.

Butters: Because one of these times I’ll get you to say yes.

Me: Doubtful but thanks for trying.

Butters: Fine, you’re off the hook tonight, but I’m going to have to report you for a crime bro.

Me: Gonna hate myself for asking, aren’t I? What crime, Butters?

Butters: Concealed carry without a permit. No one swinging that much meat should be concealing it from everyone outside of the locker room.

My face burns with embarrassment. I’ve gotten plenty of shit from teammates since high school over my…

proportions. As if locker rooms weren’t awkward enough already, the last thing I needed was any extra attention.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to navigate high school and college sports without incident.

Me: You’re an idiot, go to your party and don’t get wasted. We have practice tomorrow.

Butters: 10-4 DD.

Me: DD?

Butters: Donkey Dick.

Me: Bye, Butters.

Butters ends our text exchange with a kissy face, an eggplant, and a horse head emoji. I laugh at his ridiculousness and allow the smile that tugs at my lips. Both he and Jen have this relentless energy that’s become a lifeline for me, even if I hate admitting it.

Jen is the person I’ve let get the closest, though I continue to keep her in the dark about the things that matter most.

I don’t let many people, especially men, into my inner circle, but Butters’ golden-retriever-like enthusiasm somehow broke through my defenses. Even though I keep them both at a certain distance, I’m grateful for their friendship.

As grateful as I am for the few friendships I have, there’s a thought constantly nagging at my heart. Is there more than this? Would I even recognize it if it was standing in front of me?

Or worse. Would I push it—or them—away?